I Have Not Failed, I've Just Found 10,000 Ways That Won't Work
by theOther-Will-Grayson
Summary: -Thomas Edison. If Sirius had ever heard of this quote, or even Thomas Edison, he undoubtedly would have brought it up, not that it would have helped. As it were, all he has to comfort a frustrated Severus are some useless platitudes, a listening ear, and the ability to turn into a dog. A look at what it would have been like had Severus been friends with the Marauders.


Sirius found him exactly where he expected to: standing hunched over a cauldron and an array of strangely shaped ingredients, looking like absolute shit in a potions lab at 4AM.

"What's up, Doc?" he asked, only because he knew it would piss him off.

A sigh. "Really, Padfoot, your penchant for Muggle references and their subsequent aggravatingly permanent nicknames for me are the last things I need right now."

Sirius let out a breath. If he could still throw insults with long words and multiple adverbs, it probably wasn't all that bad.

Right?

Another sigh from the workstation. "How's Moony?"

"He's fine, Severus," Sirius said, sidling up to the workbench and wishing that their Gryffindor selflessness hadn't rubbed off on their Slytherin pal quite so much. "Gonna be honest, Doc, he's looking better than you right now."

Severus fixed him with a sallow-eyed glare, and Sirius hadn't wanted to be this right. The dark circles, the hollowed cheeks, the extra, _extra_ greasy hair that told of even more of a disregard for personal hygiene than usual. "Merlin, Severus," Sirius said, all humor dropped, teasing replaced with serious concern. "You didn't get up early, did you? You've stayed up all night?"

"I've been working," Severus snapped, snatching up a stirring rod.

"You need to go to bed," Sirius insisted. He gripped the arm that was furiously stirring. "And I think you're stirring a bit fast."

Severus yanked his arm away with another withering glare. "I'm working. And you're distracting me."

"Good."

A bitter laugh. "Good? Did you come here just to torment me, Black?"

Sirius took a seat and handed him a silvery leaf of some sort that he figured came next. To his surprise, Snape took it and added it, his face relaxing into something approaching satisfaction. "Of course not, Doc" he said, even though he knew Severus didn't really think that anyways. "I came here to break you out of your workaholic self-pity." He held up another leaf.

Severus snatched it from Sirius's hand with a little more force than was probably necessary. "There is no _self-pity_ involved."

"Yeah, okay," Sirius said, and Severus glared heatedly. "Okay, maybe more like a self-lashing. But still."

Severus rolled his eyes grandly but pointedly turned his focus to his work rather than comment. Sirius could tell that the outward resentment of his presence was merely an act, and based on the way he moved fluidly and glanced up at him nonchalantly every so often, Sirius could guess that Severus felt the comfort of another presence in the lab.

Watching ingredients drop into the pot, and the stirring rod moving rhythmically, inhaling the sanguine fumes emanating from the cauldron, Sirius felt his body relax as well, the day's — well, _night's_ — stress melting from his body as he draped his body onto the workstation. And if _he_ was this tired, considering he had gotten a bit of a fitful nap in the Shrieking Shack while Prongs minded a pacing and huffing Moony, well...

"He wouldn't want you working yourself to death like this," Sirius yawned, this time handing Severus a strange, twisty twig.

"You and I both know that Remus is an idiot about these things." Severus smoothly added the twig without breaking rhythm in his stirring, then muttered, "Stupid, self-sacrificing Gryffindors."

"Doc-"

"I mean it. He didn't want you to become animagi, either, and you did it."

"It's not the same and you know it," Sirius denied, shifting restlessly in his seat and twirling strands of his long hair with more intermittent harsh tugs than usual.

"You're right," Severus said nonchalantly, stirring with this left hand while scribbling something on a sheet of parchment. He scrutinized the potion once again before letting out a huff of dissatisfaction. "You're out there risking your lives to give him a single iota of comfort while I sit down her making...bloody...soup!" He braced his clenched fists against the table, knuckles white, stirring rod abandoned in the cauldron.

Sirius sighed, trying to find a different angles. Another lighthearted jab, maybe? "What happened to the intricate, delicate art of potionmaking?" His attempted joking tone sounded flat to even his own ears, and of course did nothing to loosen the tension in Severus's fists.

"Fuck the bloody art!" Severus exploded slamming his hands down on the workstation. Sirius jumped, eyeing the hands warily as he knew that temper could often make them go flying unsolicited. Severus's frustration was multiplied with exhaustion and worry and stress and hopelessness and it all blazed in his eyes like hellfire. He whirled on Sirius, his jaw set with the decision to take out his fury on the newest target. "Ask me to brew the Draught of Living Death, I'll do it perfectly in thirty minutes. I _invented_ a way to make Pepper-up in half the time with twice the potency. I practically _breathe_ Veritaserum, but you know what? It doesn't matter. None of it does."

"Severus-" Sirius cut in worriedly, realizing that the whole _break Severus out of his workaholic self-pity_ thing was quickly rotting before his eyes.

"No," Severus dismissed him. "There is one potion — _one bloody potion_ — that I care about, and I can't fucking get it right!"

Sirius deflated, seeing for the first time all the pent-up emotion that this was causing, how long Severus had kept his frustrations from his friends and just how deep the worry and anger ran. "Severus," he said, standing to meet him at eye level. "You are in fifth bloody year. You're good at this shit, but you're not a bloody prodigy." Severus scoffed, but Sirius braved forward. "Amortentia wasn't invented by a fifteen year old, you know."

Severus looked at him with haunted eyes. "You know who else is only in fifth bloody year? Remus. I know I'm putting myself through hell, Padfoot, but at least I'm willing."

Sirius's stomach twisted as Severus turned away and picked up his quill again, looking emotionlessly at the stagnant, probably ruined potion. "You should leave," he said quietly, and Sirius nodded. The odds of him winning this fight were not good.

He worried his hands through his hair again and stepped over the bench. "Yeah," he muttered, starting towards the exit. "Wouldn't want to distract you. I'm rubbish at this anyways."

Just as he paused at the doorframe, he heard Sirius say, "So am I," but took little satisfaction in the hard-earned wry smile that crossed his lips. And then he was gone.

Finally, blessed solitude. Severus appreciated his friends' concern, but it was more of a nuisance than anything else. There were more important things than sleep, like a potion that would save hundreds of little boys and girls that were scared of the full moon, but terrified of themselves. A potion that would bring jobs and opportunities to witches and wizards turned away for a condition that they couldn't help. A potion for the men and women forced into seclusion because of their curse. A potion that would cure Remus.

He twirled his quill around some, but he had forgotten what he wanted to write down in the first place. His own handwriting bled together, swirling around in illegible blobs before his eyes. He shoved his fingers into his eyelids. His headache grew stronger nonetheless, and he actually could not remember the last time he slept, or did homework, or—

Perhaps he should…

But no. His fingers tightened around the quill. He was so close.

Wrong again. Even before the interruptions caused him to let the potion go to shit, he could tell it was another failure. He didn't even need to bother to test it on the vials of Remus's saliva and blood. He knew it wasn't good enough. Not even close.

With a harsh flick of his wrist, Severus vanished the potion. It wasn't satisfying enough, he decided, and shredded his notes for good measure, shoved the tip of his quill into the table, snapped the stirring rod in half, overturned the workbench. He wanted to do so much more, because he was so _tired_ , dammit, and all this was going nowhere, but he was stopped by something nudging on the back of his shaking hand. Something cold and wet and vying for his attention. He looked down. A canine nose and eyes and mouth smiled back at him encouragingly, and despite himself, Severus felt his body deflate.

He knelt in front of Padfoot, putting the dog's face at his eye level, smiled wistfully as he reached up to thread his fingers through the soft, gently curling fur, over his skull, behind his ears, under his chin.

"I can't do this, Sirius," he murmured. "The full moon passes and I know he's in pain and I can't fucking do anything, and every time I feel more and more-" He didn't know from where the words came, only that the dog's wide innocent eyes accepted it all, even when he choked and broke off and looked away.

"You're Padfoot, James is Prongs, Peter is Wormtail, and what am I?" Severus shook his head, feeling bitterness creep up his throat like the lump before tears. His jaw clenched and worked as Sirius nuzzled and licked the side of his face, his ear. "I sit here and put things in pots and hope it _somehow_ works and nothing will and I just feel so bloody... _useless_!"

Sirius whined, stepping gingerly closer, worry in his wide wet eyes. Severus accepted the dog into his arms fully, leaning into the body heat and familiar scent and comforting breaths. His throat closed up until he felt so choked, so angry, so hurt and frustrated that he couldn't take it anymore. "There," he spat, disgusted with his own emotional display. "I said it." But he didn't feel any better.

Sirius rested his chin on his shoulder, the small jaw a comforting weight and a signal that it was okay, that he could let loose. That he could cry. And as he felt drops of tears well up in his eyelids, he was so grateful for the black fur that tickled his nose, the neck that stifled his whimpers as he cried like his body was a stadium and his emotions were people shoving their way through the too-small doors. Weeks of worry and all-nighters and anger and trying _so damn hard_ just spilled over like water and a broken dam. He clutched at the loose skin of Padfoot's torso, letting everything out into his willing shoulder. Sirius nuzzled him and made small noises to let him know that it was okay, that he understood, that he would be there as long as Severus needed him.

He didn't stop needing him until well into the sunrise.


End file.
